


Argument

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Laconic [4]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Felicity puts her foot down, Fluff, Gen, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  Demands<br/>It's a small thing to ask for, so of course he won't hesitate.</p><p>A gift!fic for everyone here on AO3 that made 1000 hits possible on Technical Assistance. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Argument

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write me some sassy!Oliver—sue me. I can't help it; there was a post on tumblr that sparked this (which I reblogged from sarahtwinkie). :) The situation is inspired by my dad, who likes to do the same thing, and it drives me up the wall. :P Thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated. :)
> 
> Anyway, I have been working on this for a week because I really wanted to thank everyone on AO3 for making 1000 hits on Technical Assistance possible. Seriously, it's a *one-shot,* and I already have 1000 hits—which is amazing! Thanks to all of you!

"I have some demands," she says to Oliver, arms crossed, mouth set into a frown.

It's the lack of a smile that allows the dread to worm its way into his mind; she's _always_ smiling. Suddenly he's not so sure about the two of them being alone in the lair tonight.  He's seen her when she's angry, and she always looks a lot like this.  If there's one thing he knows, it's that a very angry Felicity Smoak is the last thing he wants to see in his lair.  She can be pretty scary when she wants to be.

Oliver tries to fight off the feeling, opting for the best response in the given scenario.  "Before I hear you demands," he replies dryly, "I want to make sure the hostage is unharmed."

A hint of a smile breaks through her expression, which allows him to take a deep breath.  Maybe it's not as serious as he originally thought; she wouldn't smile if she was angry.  "Cute," she says in a tone that indicates the opposite.  "But I'm serious—I have some demands.  Otherwise, I'm going to lose my sanity around this place, and I'm not sure I can take any more of this."

Oliver crosses his arms, bracing himself for the onslaught.  "All right," he says after a long moment, quietly urging her on.

Her hands start flying immediately, and she starts talking at that ridiculously fast pace.  "Look," she says abruptly, a little too loud, "this is the fifth time this week I've found junk on my desk that doesn't belong to me—and it's  _Tuesday_."  She picks up a series of tubes littered between the keys of one of her keyboards.  "While I do appreciate how awesome your girlfriend is with bodily fluids"—she balks, mouth opening without sound for a moment—"and I didn't mean that the way it sounds, but I'd appreciate it if her centrifuge tubes stay—hey, crazy idea— _in the centrifuge!_   And then Diggle!  Even  _Diggle!_   I love him, don't get me wrong, but..."  She picks up a towel draped over her chair with two fingers as evidence, but then she flicks it across the room. "My chair is  _not_  a towel rack, Oliver!"

Before he can get a word in edgewise, she pokes him in the chest, which startles him; she's usually more careful to maintain a distance between them.  "And  _you_ , mister," she continues, suddenly hot again, as Oliver balks at her tone, "are the  _worst_  of them  _all!_ "  She picks up the shaft of an arrow lying across the desk, behind her keyboard.  "You have a place to make arrows"—she points to the other side of the lair where his quiver lay, and the space in front of it—" _right here!_   Why you have to do it at  _my_  desk is beyond me!"  She frowns as she finally notices the bottle of antiseptic and a set of packed sutures lying near her left computer.  "And, don't get me wrong, I don't mind patching you up around here when you come in, but at least put the supplies back when you're done!"

She crosses her arms again, more calm this time.  "What  _I_  did sign up for was to help you with this mission of ours."   Oliver doesn't think she notices the way she says  _our_  mission, not  _his_  mission.  "That's why I put up with your temper, and the death, and the heartbreak of some of the things we do.  That's why every day I go to work and do a job that doesn't require a single ounce of my brainpower."  She says it without malice, for a change.  "But what I did  _not_  sign up for is to work as your maid!"

He holds his hands up in defeat for a moment before deciding to rest them on her shoulders.  "Felicity," he says quietly, "I'm sorry.  We should respect your space more than we do.  It's just that there is a lot that happens here, and we don't always have time to work at our designated stations."

"I get that, I do," she responds instantly, "but could you clean up your stuff after you're done?  I don't mind you using my desk—it's the mess that drives me insane."

"I'll take care of it," he assures her, picking up the towel from the floor, the arrow shaft, and the medical supplies from the desk, moving away from her desk to put them up.

She smiles.  "That's all I ask," she responds.

He thinks it's funny, because he'd do anything for her, and all she asks of him is to clean up after himself.


End file.
